


Smiles

by the_warmest_machine



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 08:11:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11505255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_warmest_machine/pseuds/the_warmest_machine
Summary: On a night in with Deb, Dexter ruminates on the smiling thing people do. Harry's taught him how to smile, but it's something else that Deb thinks not all his smiles are fake.





	Smiles

  

“Dex, why don’t you ever smile?” Deb inquires while sprawled across the couch, her territory during the evenings. Like I have my rituals, she has her own—namely, watching TV past midnight. It’s something Harry lets slide because of his late shifts. Staying awake past curfew is the most innocent a sixteen year old can do at this hour, compared to backyard deals and lousy hookups. And homicide.

“I smile, see?” I reply with bared teeth. My facial skin feels unnecessarily stretched, but I imagine my teeth gleaming, wide-spread, and happy. Deb disagrees, indicated by her disgusted face, as I plop onto her legs. Other than the smile I just gave her, it’s true—I do smile. In each appropriate situation, I smile. I always make sure I do. There’s something in a pleasant face that humans find comforting, I’ve observed, but Harry is the one to teach me how to smile. If you show too much tooth and gum, it’s a snarl. If your lips have a gentle curve, it’s an expression of happiness. But it’s not the muscles that differentiate threat from reassurance. It’s the eyes and the intensity, how you can tell a murderous intent from a friendly one.

Deb peels her legs out from under me and readjusts. Now a foot rests on my lap, while her other foot tickles the floor. “That’s not a smile. And it’s creepy as fuck. You look like one of those psychos getting a mug shot.”

Maybe my eyes are too serious, or maybe they’re empty. There’s a faraway, boorish look in criminals’ eyes, like they have cataracts, when the camera flashes. They don’t ask to have their picture taken, so I don’t blame them. I do blame them for getting caught, though. Something that will never happen to me; Harry will make sure of that, with his teachings. One of Harry’s teachings in How to Human is smiling, and another is holding conversation. It’s a useful skill to practice, so I continue talking. “Why do I have to smile, anyway? It’s stupid,” I say. One point of honesty I can offer, Dark Passenger and all.

“It shows you’re happy. And it’s normal. N-O-R-M-A-L,” she rebukes, scowling eyes pinned on mine. Her gaze then falls across my body, scrutinizing. “God, you hog so much room.”

I sink into the couch cushion before her foot stretches into my cheek. “You should be more worried about your foot.” In between her toes were pieces of sand, souvenirs from Miami Beach. They were inconsequential, but pointing them out would be enough to annoy Deb. “An alien species has invaded,” I continue with exaggerated disbelief. “The colony only grows stronger.”

Accordingly, Deb rolls her eyes. “Be more worried about your gross teeth. You still haven’t brushed them. There’s red in the cracks. Everywhere.” She then roughly nudges her heel into my ribs, something I ignore because…

Red everywhere. I don’t mind the notion of red everywhere. Red everywhere would satisfy me. I push aside her foot and say, “Tomato sauce will do that.” Even the thought of red correlates to blood, and I need to avoid excitement. At least until Harry is home. I turn up the TV volume to drown my voices, and for a while, Deb and I sit in silence, until she changes the channel.

We were watching a romantic comedy. When they don’t think I’m weird, Deb’s friends think I’m “cool” because I don’t mind watching fake girls get their fake dream guy. Really, the people in rom-coms are like me: hidden, undetected, unfulfilled. I use them as models, too, for facial expressions. But Deb is sick of the movie—sick of boys—she says, as she removes the ring her recent ex gifted her. She flips through stations and finally stops. What’s on fixates me—a knife, glinting in the lamplight, arcs downwards and plunges into the prey’s chest… no blood is on screen, but I can imagine it spurting like a spout. I can feel the trimmer of the blade’s hilt as the prey spasms, and I can feel how the knife stills when the prey is dead. Suddenly I’m parched, and I lick my lips. I see Deb, but I don’t hear what she’s saying; I can only feel thirst and darkness swarm my senses. I think about what it would be like to puncture her chest, to feel the metal sink through muscle and into her aorta, but then I think of the fear and betrayal in her eyes, and the tears that asked why. The conflicting image is enough for me to discern her words.

“Hello, numbskull. You finally paying attention?” Deb snapped, exasperated.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, repressing the image of her flowing blood. Maybe she would like to be strangled instead; it’s more intimate, skin-to-skin, than a knife—no, no. I can’t think of these things. The greatest threat to her is me, but I am still her protector. To damage her would be against natural code.

“You looked so out of it, dude,” Deb huffs with a relieved laugh and a quirked grin. “Like, where were you Dex?”

I focus on what’s in front of me: Deb, unharmed, smiling her dimpled smile, and showing the softness beneath her rough edges. She’s concerned for me, I can tell. I breathe in, then out, and flex my hands. This is a perfect moment to practice control, to continue Harry’s lessons. While I buckle the Dark Passenger in, I tell my sister, “I was just thinking. You said smiling shows I’m happy. If you say I never smile, doesn’t that mean I’m never happy?”

“What? No. You’re happy here, with me.” Her eyes are resolute, and I wonder how, with pupils as dark as mine, they can reveal the depth of emotion she feels. If I felt anything, maybe my eyes would be like hers; maybe my smile would be like hers.

“Then there’s a fault in Deb logic.”

My sister growls and chucks a pillow at my face, which I guard with raised arms. “The only fault is in your pea-brain head.”

If I think about Deb dying by me now, no image surfaces, no promise of release tickles my nerve. The Dark Passenger is quieted, and I grin. “So… I don’t have to smile?”

“You don’t have to smile all the time, but more often would be nice. You have a good smile, when it’s real. Like the one you have now.”

“Okay,” I said, and we both turned back to the screen. It was the murdered man’s funeral; people cried, and then began discussing the goodness in his life. I briefly look to Deb when they mention all the positives, then to the front lawn. Lights flash behind the window curtains; Harry is home, so it’s time for bed. We rise from the couch and say goodnight. I watch her close her bedroom door, before I go to mine.

With my head against my pillow, I think as I drift to sleep. This time it’s not of killing, like it usually is. I don’t really know how Deb knows what’s real and what isn’t with me, to the extent that she can, but I think it’s nice she knows parts of me I don’t.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be posted about... 5 or 6 years ago, maybe. lmao
> 
> i'm pretty sure the fandom's dead, but i need to get this up here so i can get on with works i should be finishing ;(


End file.
